Collect every last cherry blossom petal and make a picnic blanket for your darling and you in spring


I can see it:

You are exquisite
Touch of life

Illuminating my

Mostly stuck
between my teeth

Making them travel

throughout a human body
which apparently happens
to be mine:


You are so achingly divine

Petite in design
Intoxicating as wine
You make me want to rhyme

Write with me:

I mean
stay within gunshot
so I can finish

sketching you

Perfecting me, you said
Trying not to disturb
what is already perfected, I replied

You make me blush:

I am such a lush
I can’t get enough
A frisky blackbird is my love


Say their name and they reach across their seemingly exclusive domain


That is not
the case
with you

Because I have
a million love poems

most of them
so cheesy
I don’t want to write boring

clichés to throw
you off the page
with a rage which

belongs to ancient
poets with their
murderous designs

reaching their hands
through the grass
One more line

of love!
Let us write



Subatomic romanzo


To fall in love in order to set of a sequence of profound events that will lead you to a grand unified theory of love for public consumption seems like such a contemptible and typical thing a writer might do so as to preface a real depth charge to new material that it needs, to live independently of the writer. But that is not the case, not in the least, with you.

Italian poem


Di a mia madre che sono dispiaciuto
Ma sto nuotando attraverso l’orizzonte
Io e il mio amore
verso l’infinito
Di al mondo che sono dispiaciuto poichè la mia mente, il mio corpo e la mia anima fugge con te stasera
Ogni genio italiano che è vissuto, io stesso e me
Innamorati delle parole che hanno incorniciato la mente di dio


Tell my mother I’m sorry
But I’m running away with you tonight
Tell my father I’m sorry
But I go to the sea

Tell my brother I’m sorry
But I am swimming across the horizon
My baby and me
To Infinity

Tell the world I’m sorry
As I set my mind to my body and soul to flee with you tonight

Every Italian genius that ever lived
Me myself and I

In love with the very scribe
who mapped the mind of God


You might fall in love with me if i lie to you but if I tell you the truth you might love me forever


Let me preface this poem with an
evocation of the film from the 1980s

called Death
Becomes Her

starring Goldie Hawn and Meryl Streep
as best friends and worst enemies

and narcissists who in an attempt
to live forever take a potion

designed by a spring following time transcending
Isabella Rosellini

a potion which uncannily kills them
but they don’t die

nor age
but are subject to decay and accident:

at the end of the film
they fall down the stairs of a church on a hill

and crack apart
limbs and torsos snapping

heads rolling like eggs:
Falling in love is Goldie Hawn

and Meryl Streep falling down the stairs
You pushed me down the stairs

you say in Italian to a man
who has not pushed you down the stairs

at least not literally
He looks back at you with

greatly reflective eyes
though they are deep soil brown

and their lashes raven black
as are most of the features of

the Meditteranean peninsula
where Michaelangelo lived

He looks back at you
awaiting your response

This is more than bait
More than smorgasbord

Writing is my uninhibited

self uninhabited
by ghosts

This is exorcism
of past wounds

my darling
Vuoi ballere

con me?
Care to dance?